You Don't Know Me
by toujourspurPAL
Summary: You don't know me. Not at all. You don't even know the first thing about me, Father." A certain lunatic gets his nice long and extremely psycho rant. Guess who. Complete. And I tell you who it is. "Listen to me scream."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: If you want more chapters let me know, and I shall comply.**

**Credits: The Tempest (Will Shakespeare), Lord of the Rings (J. R. R. Tolkein), Aleksandr Isaevich Solzhenitsyn (the give me my freedom line) (RIP), a book called _You Don't Know Me_ which I highly reccomend, Vladimir Nabokov's _Lolita_.**

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You don't know me.

Not at all.

You don't know the first thing about me, Father. Do you even know who I am? If you saw me without introduction, or without context--home, but when are you ever home? And is it even a home?--would you even know me name? Yes, you have called me by name before, but--

No. Never you mind, Father. When have you ever paid attention? Why should this change? Perhaps it should not. Perhaps your mind will be calmer, not knowing-

You think youcould take it? You weak grey-haired man- you could take none of this. Not only do you not know me, you know nothing. Of anything. An explaination ensues:

What are my friends' names? What House am I in- no, Father, not your House; I believe myself above the likes of Ravenclaw-? What Quidditch position do I play? What is _her _name- _her_, Father, do you note the italicised three letter, two consonants, a vowel, glorious beauty. Three syllables, actually.

No, Father, not Lolita. I know Nabokov as well as you. I saw that coming; smelled it, tasted it on the thin air. You would know the other answers too, Father, if you thought. Four Houses, seven Quidditch positions, and the names you would recognise, perhaps, but not as my friends.

Where was I the night before my sixth year of absolutely pointless Hogwarts schooling started? Why have I always worn long sleeves since then? Father, I have mastered those "Unforgivable" curses you speak of. A crime so heinous- ha! What did I do? Loyalty, Father, is loyalty such a sin? (Venial or mortal, I wonder, but no matter. And is there penance?)

Of course, Father, of course there is penance. The physical manifestation of insanity itself and its Ring-Wraiths to guard me. To watch me, watching, always watching--

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Incidentally, Father, I do not like Nabokov much. I favor Chekhov above him, Solzhenitsyn above him.

_Don't give me your bones. Just give me my freedom._

Oh, yes. I like Solzhenitsyn.

Was it not Gogol who once said/wrote (I know not) Mother Russia suffers two problems- fools and bad roads?

What do we suffer, Father? Fools and...what? Intolerance?

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--But for once. Mother. You. (Looking quite repulsed, as I expected.) Me. Cold narrow room. Shaking hands. Knife. Flask. Drink.

I walked away from hell, from Niflheim, from Muspelheim- Nifleheim, I believe, world of ice; ice does so well in hearts-- Ring-Wraiths have no heart, you have no heart, Father; are you a Nazgul?

_Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die._

As you are. You will not live forever, Father. The New Order has no room for your ilk. For contaminants. I shall rid the world of you, Father, and years later I do.

_Full fathom five thy father lies_

_Of his bones are coral made_

_Those are pearls that were his eyes_

_Nothing of him that doth fade-_

No. No. I cannot continue for laughing. Hysteria, cold and delicious. Of your bones- forgive me, grammatical mistake, I meant to say _bone_, spineless craven old man- of your bone is nothing made. Let it rot. All you will.

Father. Master's father.

I assisted in that, Father; did you know? Of course not. You don't know me, Father; soon I shall lose patience and tire of saying this. But Master has returned in all his glory- the Return of the King, the Once and Future King, _the crownless again shall be king_-

And then I was gone. Before my ten-fold hundred-fold million-fold reward I was gone. Now you are not alone, Father. I keep you company. For no more am I myself, for no more do I know every blackened line of my soul- proudly blackened, tatooed with dirt-blood- for I have none, no soul and no blood.

You do not know me.

I do not know you, Father.

Do I even know myself?

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A/N: Guess who...review!


	2. Chapter 2 Life

**A/N: Yes, decided to write more...keep guessing as to who this is, I know he would appreciate it if you figure it out. Sorry for the weird chapter titles, it will make more sense when you see it all together.**

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Father, Father, what do you want of me?

Am I not enough, Father? What more do you ask of me; how much longer before I can be your son? I have done well in my lessons, Father, didn't you see my O.W.L.s? Is _twelve O.W.L.s _not enough for you?

No, of course not. Nothing is ever enough for you, Father, you want me to be ten thousand more than I ever could be.

So, naturally, Father, there was nothing left for me to do but...answer my summons.

You know, Father, it's not a good idea to bring your work home with you, it gives us children such ideas! We know too much, and then we pass it along, Father, to our friends, and _they_ find for us the way out of the darkness and into the light.

I took the light, Father; I took it kneeling before a fireplace (lit, warm) on flagstones, or marble, I can't remember, Father (will you forgive me?) (cold stone, whatever it was; colder than humanity) and shortly I began to crusade. To give the light unto the world and fight for the kingdom.

And you never even _noticed_, Father!

I would come home, happier than you poor fools, happier than you after some pointless promotion. Father, old idiot man, did you ever realise that you received so very many promotions to die, old, coward, and no heirs?

Father, you lived a pointless life. Mine- not so.

I fought for the light, _my _light, something mine and never yours and something I excelled at, Father, much more than I had ever excelled at school or Quidditch or pointless Ministry shit, Father; I had no future so why did I need to plan for mine?

I gave the light unto the world.

When that happens, Father, it's such a rush; you wouldn't believe it, it's like being alive for the first time and living forever in the light.

_Do you have the right to take away life, Father?_

_We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal _(you don't count, Father; you count for nothing; are you a man?)_, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness._

Life, Father, you can't take Life away. Quite sad, isn't it, that all I can say to you is from the Constitution of the United States.

Of America.

I find it hard to care, (about that last bit- honestly! We can tell! We're not idiots over here!) Father, when there is such a rush to be had, when there is living to be had, living is bringing in of light, light that shines through mud and dirt, and the light only comes through that cold sweet rush of putting out darkness.

(Explanation, Father, for you are very stupid and I do not doubt in the slightest that you could not understand me): You, Father, you and your kind are _darkness_. Understood? Yes. Wonderful. We continue.

_Light_. This is what we are. You are not a part of this we. Only certain people are, Father, and I have but one thing to thank you for in my life- that I was made pureblood and I could become one of the light and one with the light.

Light and darkness, the eternal battle. I am light; you, Father, are darkness. Yes. I am light, Father; you are darkness.

Light always conquers, light reigns ever the victor.

Light extinguishes darkness.

Light-life. Pretty colors.

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A/N: Okay, DON'T let all the I-am-light-you-are-darkness talk fool you; he's psycho. Keep reviewing; so far there are two more chapters planned.


	3. Chapter 3 Death

There are dead bird feathers on the stones here, Father.

There are birds outside too, and I cannot tell if they are purposely throwing themselves against the shell of light-killing magic that surrounds this place, or if the wind embraces and kills them, but in the end they all fall into the sea. And their feathers come into my birdcage.

Dead bird feathes come to the birdcage.

They are the feathers of gulls and skuas and once an albatross, such bad luck for it to die, their feathers grey-white like my skin, and perhaps once they were silken. Now they are heavy, laden with moisture, separated from smoothness into spikes. The bit near the bottom, the part of a quill to write with, should be downy, white, soft- they are twisted and sodden, tangled hair--human, white?

I hold them like quills, Father, your son who earned twelve O.W.L.s, I hold them and could I write? There is nothing to write with in this place, no ink, except for blood and even that runs dry, too cold and soaked with salt-flavored mist to rise. Would it come grey? Does blood run wicked grey, the color of the dome of the sky and the desert of water? Grey blood, that is killed blood, and I am slaughtered. You sent me to this place of grey-running blood, Father. Father, you killed me; you're killing me, Father. Start laughing now.

Don't ever stop.

Laughing and laughing and not ever stopping, drawing deceased darkened blood with broken-edged quills; they have been broken like wood or bone snapped; all of the place which extinguishes light that you have exiled me to, Father, is monotonous blood-colored--walls, celing, floor, Nazgul, walls, celing, floor...

Birdcages are not made of stone and birdcages made of stone would fall, but birdcages do not have Nazgul and this cage will never fall. Death, and falling; the moment of death the falling headlong begins and those who fall are marked, sealed, to fall-- The ones who do not fall are immune to gravity but I have gravity tied to my arm like a child like a black balloon, Father, and you don't.

Gravity, Father, gravity is what keeps us tied to earth and it is beautiful, and death is beautiful--

And I do not think it is, Father, death feels chilled and miserable, my wings clipped and my stomach full of first holy communion. Treason.

Traitors die, Father, you are making me into a traitor and furthermore you sent me into the womb of death, killing me twice over and so I blame and accredit my thoughts of treason to you.

Freud is a brilliant man, whoever he is, because in the end it was not you wh osaved me but my mother who lowered herself immensely to marry you. Gravity remained tethered, but in a straight and narrow string-path from it cut a line, not grey, but exhausted red, and from that moment on death was no more drowning in pain, after drinking physical pain and re-learning how to walk.

But not yet, despite all beautiful things, am I yet out of the birdcages, for I remain dead and imprisoned under the weapons you wield, Father, but my blood dances free.

Father, you killed me and left me in the in-between place. Dead bird feathers marred by salt and blood that splattered, tarred the floor. Marred and tarred, splattered and slaughtered, souls and souls and salt.

I shall forever see birds and see death, Father, and you have made me what I am, a pureblood man afraid of dead birds.


	4. Chapter 4 Resurrection

For a long time, Father, for a long time I am kept imprisoned by you, chained in my mind by your manacles, yes, even my mind chained, and then I begin to see again, to know, to control my own mind. Sometimes, Father, sometimes I wanted to run before the time, to flee before I knew my absolute haven.

And then they came for me, Father, and our roles were reversed, yours and mine; now I am the jailer and you are the jailbird, now I control- your thoughts, your mind. I could control you entirely, Father, you would not be able to breathe if I bade you not to do so, and you would suffocate with a clear windpipe, drowning in the oxygen that you cannot see.

I don't. Perhaps you could serve us some purpose, Father. But I am wrong. They say you have lost your mind, Father; you have. You have lost it to me. So you die- so I kill you, so I repay you halfway for when you killed me twice- and because I cannot kill you again, O immeasurable sadness, I make you into one small thin bone (easily broken) and I hold your funeral, your desecration, neither of us visible any longer

You are gone from the world forever, Father, and I am happy now. But I am not entirely satisfied; there is still great joy and glory and beauty to come.

It is coming, it is coming, it is coming….

It is coming….Resurrected, it is coming, I have been resurrected….

It passes, unexpected, in the summer night. I am blind and do not see for I have no gift of foresight, only hindsight belongs to me, a gift given in the fortress of the Nazguls; have I failed now? I have. I must end the universe before the universe collapses in on me. Listen to me scream.

I am almost succeeded.

A treasonous thought, which I dedicate to your memory, Father: I will succeed, I will vanquish, I will triumph, when Master did not. I…am…better….

Shut up; give me silence! Screaming at my mind, my mind has been torn apart by the battles fought in it, for it; it is shredded into pieces (gory image, yes; do I care?) and that is why I Am.

Darkness coming. Darkness coming now. I am sightless….

I am handed a glass of…water, is it? Water, I believe, I hope.

I drink….

I speak….

I am a traitor, I am nothing, I have forsaken the light and I will die, yes, I will die, Master, forgive me, for I do not know what I am doing, I am a traitor first resurrected now insurrection.

They have left me for the most part, I may hold silence now in my loosely cupped hands like cool liquid, I am abandoned, guarded by another traitor to wait. Waiting, it is the most painful; waiting, eternal, it is the art I learned as a bird and my mind is flying, through the castle, and I sense something drawing closer….

I sense the Nazgul whenever they are near; I am tuned to their frequency, so quoth I, and I know when they are nearby, they are coming for me, these monsters created by what they cannot own lest it consume them.

I am forgetting myself, I must remember, they are draining me of my needle-focus and my memories. Who am I? Who am I, Father? Who do you say I am?

I do not know my great-grandfather's name and my grandfather's name is Caspar Crouch and my father's name is Bartemius Caspar Crouch and my name is Bartemius Caspar Crouch, you are my father and I killed you but my mother, she died for me, and I am in Slytherin and I played Keeper a thousand years ago when I was young and I was not afraid of dead birds—

Who am I?

I do not know my grandfather's name and my father's name is Bartemius Caspar Crouch and my name is Bartemius Caspar Crouch, I am a Death Eater with the Mark burnt into my flesh, and so did Regulus Black when we were children, when we were friends; I convinced him to join, but he passed as most things do with the wind and he is no more to me for I expect he could give you a very clear, concise definition of treason for he is the fulfillment of treason itself—

Who am I?

I do not know my father's name and my name is Bartemius Caspar Crouch and I am (was? Birdcages- Azkaban, full of Nazgul-dementors; Imperius, these have taken from me all emotion and was I ever capable of love?) in love with a woman already married to another man, and naturally she does not know it (reference the earlier parentheses: if I am not capable of love, one of the two capacities, then how can they call what I do evil, the other capacity, if I have no capacity in this sense at all?) and in case you could not guess this is the sort of luck I always have; I killed my father with much happiness—

Who am I?

MY NAME IS BARTEMIUS CASPAR CROUCH AND I SWEAR ON PERIL OF MY SOUL THAT HARRY POTTER WILL NOT LIVE TO SEE THE END OF HIS FOURTH YEAR--


End file.
